The Training of Cecelia

The Training of Cecelia

Summary: Proud woman at long last explores her submissive side.

Note 1: Thanks to TigerSir for suggesting this novella and to push my limits a little.

Note 2: Thanks to Tex Beethoven and TigerSir for editing this ambitious story.

Note 3: This is part one of what I'm certain will become a lengthy novella. Also, although it contains a lot of typical silkstockingslover themes, this one digs deeper into BDSM than I usually go.

The Training of Cecelia

Stock markets were crashing worldwide.

Which meant hostile takeovers were occurring everywhere, and really close to home, my position as CEO of a large marketing corporation was in serious jeopardy. Like most corporations we were hit hard by the crash, and our shares had already dropped to half their pre-COVID value.

And since I was already stressed out, the last thing I wanted to hear was the board had hired Paul Stevenson to do a thorough analysis of our company.

The worst thing about Mr. Stevenson's arriving on the scene was he was known not only for his analytical skills, but for completely overhauling any companies he became involved with. He specialized in performing last-ditch efforts to save brands or a corporation from total collapse, so he no doubt considered extreme measures routine.

Therefore my job was obviously at no small risk. It even might have already been decided by the Board of Directors that I was top choice as the scapegoat for our plummeting share values, even though the entire world was in the midst of a fucking pandemic!

So I was pissed. I hadn't worked this hard for all these years, having not even taken any time off for having children, just to be shoved out the door by some hired gun.

Who wouldn't be stressed?

So that night, after a long day of keeping it all together at least on the outside, since I couldn't let my dumbass employees know I was at all worried about what was happening, I came home and said straight off to my husband of over twenty years, who'd been with me through thick and thin, "I need to get fucked, and it needs to be now."

Joseph looked up from his laptop and asked mildly, "Can it wait a few minutes? I'm dealing with a couple of issues at the office."

"Do I look like it can wait a few minutes?" I asked, completely stressed out. Twenty years of marriage does at least three things to you. First, you know your partner inside and out; second, you take him or her for granted; three, your sex life has descended to ho hum generic.

Even five years ago Joseph would still have immediately tossed his laptop aside and given me a good fucking.

Just like many women in power, I had two main personas. I was the no-nonsense feminist ball-buster at work, where no one dared to fuck with me. (Except one person literally me, since I had a secretary named Karen whose main purpose was to eat me out whenever I became overly stressed. She was a sweet, late-twenties married woman with a magical tongue.) Yet at home behind closed doors, I just wanted to let go and get myself fucked... but alas, my mild-mannered husband (yes, he was very much like Clark Kent) had never understood this need of mine. But I guess most of that was on me since I never had either, and thus I'd never explained it to him. Not at all since I was too ashamed.

For my entire life, or I guess only since I turned eighteen, I'd never understood or accepted my inner need to be fucked like some cheap slut.

I'd given into it on a few occasions a long time ago. Like the time I agreed to get spit-roasted by a boyfriend and his best friend. And there was another time when I was fucked by four guys in a train. (No, not the railroad kind.) During the heat of the moment it was exhilarating, and I came buckets, endlessly having multiple orgasms while I was used uncaringly and called horrible names, just serving as a cum bucket for those guys' pleasure.

Yet once I was back alone in my bed, or even as soon as my walk of shame, but in any case once my orgasms had subsided, I felt overwhelming guilt. I felt utter shame. I felt I was just a façade. I felt lost.

Thankfully I met Joseph at the right time, and so I cooled what I'd considered my self-destructive behavior as I began climbing the corporate ladder.

Yet in recent years Joseph seemed different. He was less interested in sex, and I wondered if it was because of me. I did work long hours after all. And I'd become obsessed with my rise to the top. I was more successful than he was.

His phone rang.

"Don't answer it," I demanded.

"It's Martin, I have to," he said, looking apologetic as he went ahead and answered. "Hi Martin, what is it now?"

Five seconds into the conversation I knew he wouldn't be fucking me at all! Or at least not anytime soon. I cursed and stalked out, knowing I'd be stuck with getting myself off while watching some porn or reading erotica on my laptop.

A minute later Joseph came and found me only to say, "I'm sorry, I've got to go."

"Yeah, go," I said, not even looking up, my tone broadcasting to the room that I was pissed, as I clicked on a video where a woman gets gangbanged by a bunch of basketball players... one of my go to scenes.

"I'll be back as soon as I can," he said, still apologetically, but so what?

"Just go," I said waving him away, refusing even to look at him, even though my logical side knew he had no choice about going (I'd even done the same thing to him many times), yet my needy side felt completely betrayed. This lack of a sexual connection between us had been happening far too often.

I fingered myself to an orgasm, which didn't do much to quell my stress, before I went to work out in my personal gym, and then I went online to research some more about Mr. Stevenson. I needed to understand him. I needed to get a step ahead of him and stay there. I needed to be damned ready to play hardball!

....

As I prepared to meet with Mr. Stevenson, I dressed like I always did for work... a smart business power suit outfit, all black, with black pantyhose and heels. It was professional and no nonsense.

It was what I wore pretty much every day.

Black business suits with pants (dresses or skirts weren't appropriate for work, but they were for informal meetings and social activities), again with black pantyhose and black heels. These two uniforms had become an integral part of who I was at work.

I'd already downed three cups of coffee by the time Mr. Stevenson entered the building.

My secretary led him into my office, and I stood up to greet him. I'd already known he was handsome, I'd seen many pictures of him online; yet upon seeing him in person, the pictures didn't remotely do the sheer presence of the man justice.

He was tall. Just over six feet.

He was well built, his suit unable to hide his large, muscular arms.

His face was good looking as well... but his eyes were what drew me in. Brown, like the majority of people's, yet they were somehow unique. I couldn't explain why, but I felt his eyes boring right into me as he greeted, "Nice to meet you, Mrs. Durden."

"Nice to meet you too, Mr. Stevenson," I replied, as I extended my hand and he shook it. A strong man's hand. Again I couldn't explain why, but there was something about him that was unsettling me, and it wasn't only because he could end my career in a heartbeat... or perhaps rescue it. For a man in his early fifties, he was very distinguished.

"Please, call me Paul," he smiled, a warm smile, one that seemed genuine, even though I knew he had the power to crush people's dreams in the blink of an eye, and didn't mind doing so if it was the logical thing to do.

"Well then, please call me Cecelia," I replied, offering a familiarity I never allowed anyone except my mother, husband and close friends.

At work I was Mrs. Durden.

Always.

Yet here I was, already breaking my own code in the first few seconds of meeting the man who was likely here to end my tenure as CEO.

"Please, have a seat," I offered.

"Thank you," he responded, taking one. I walked back around to my desk and sat down.

After a pause, attempting to demonstrate I was in control, I asked, "So how does this work?"

"First, we chat."

Being a straightforward person, (or maybe blunt is a better term), I responded, "I'm not much for small talk."

"Then that may be your first problem," he said.

"Excuse me?" I knee jerked in response, already annoyed and defensive.

"Look," he said, somehow both soft spoken and yet in control, a difficult mixture to achieve, "I'm here to analyze the entire company."

"No, you're here to downsize it," I corrected him.

"That's yet to be decided," he said. "Sometimes the solution is actually to grow out of the difficulties."

"You really think that?" I asked, surprised because that had been my recommendation for over a year, an aggressive plan that had been rejected by the board on numerous occasions... including just last week.

"Yes, and I understand that it's something you've been pushing for quite consistently," he said, leaning forward ever so slightly.

"I have," I nodded, finding his demeanor disarming, his smile charming, and his eyes hypnotic.

"So the 'small talk' I want is for you to describe your plan to me in detail," he said, leaning back in his chair, obviously preparing to listen, not talk.

So for almost an hour, I gave him a lengthy description of my vision to expand our brand worldwide, and to use social media and celebrities to market it. It was a brazen plan to initiate during a downturn, but also an aggressive one, albeit expensive.

He listened, he asked a couple of clarifying questions, but he didn't interrupt or argue or attempt to poke holes in my plan... totally unlike the board.

"You've put a lot of thought into all this," he said when I was finally done.

"It's my job," I said.

"It's part of your job," he corrected me.

"Excuse me?" I asked, trying to recall what he'd said an hour ago that had made me say 'excuse me' back then.

"It's just that..." he paused, leaning forward again, looking me in the eyes, his own eyes once again making me feel he could see right into me, which made me shiver ever so slightly. I couldn't explain why, there was something about this man besides my career possibly being in his hands, that was rattling me. And at work I never got rattled.

"It's just that what?" I asked impatiently. I was a get things done woman, not a happily awaiting your pleasure woman.

"What's your secretary's name?"

"Karen," I replied without needing to think, but not sure why that mattered.

"And what's the name of the young lady who brought us our beverages a little while ago?"

"Jill, I think," I said, although truth be told, I had no idea, even though she'd been here for over a year; I'd once scolded her for wearing too short of a skirt, and I'd been terse with her today for interrupting our meeting, even though it was thoughtful of her to brave my office so she could offer us some coffee or tea.

"She's Helen," he corrected me.

"How could you know that?" I asked, having no idea whether he was right.

"It's my job to learn about all the employees," he said, his eyes never breaking eye contact even while he sipped his tea. It made me uneasy, and I broke eye contact on more than one occasion, since I couldn't help constantly feeling he was looking right into my soul... as absurd as that sounds. "Their names, duties (and not just official job descriptions), passions, and their family and career goals."

"For the beverage server?" I asked, realizing I had no idea what her job title was, nor did I know anything about her duties, other than to bring me a coffee with a bagel at precisely ten every morning and a second coffee at two.

"Her job title is caterer," he clarified. "She's engaged to a UPS driver seven years her senior, loves to travel, and plans to open her own restaurant one day."

"I see," I said, realizing that if he thought knowing these things was important, I was likely in big trouble. I never attempted to learn anything about my employees, since I'd never seen that as being part of my job. My job was to run a multi-million-dollar company... not to make friends and ask about my staff's personal lives.

"Do you see?" he asked, although not in a condescending way, but in one that nevertheless made me feel insecure about myself and my leadership style.

"Are you letting me go then?" I asked, suddenly realizing this wasn't going well.

He leaned back again, although he still kept his eyes focused on mine, "No, that's not what I'm saying at all."

"Then what are you saying?" I asked, getting frustrated with this odd conversation with his strange but perceptive questions.

"That if you're willing, I can help make the vision you described to me into a reality, but it won't be easy," he said, leaning forward again. He was like a seated yo-yo.

"I can handle any amount of hard work," I said, recovering a little of the hope I'd had when he'd listened so raptly to my vision, and then had been losing when he asked those questions about my food person... whose name I already forget even though he told me. Hannah? No, Harper? Oh, it started with an H....

"Oh, I know you can do that," he said, his tone once again hard to read: supportive yet commanding, if that makes any sense at all.

"Then what else do I need to do?" I asked, wanting to get on board with whatever the plan was... enough small talk. I was a tasks person. I needed a plan. I liked check lists. I loved crossing items off of lists or checking off completed ones in boxes.

"You must do exactly as I say," he intoned, which sent chills up my spine. Those were words I'd been wishing my husband would say to me for two decades! And this man had said them even though there was no way he could know that behind the powerful persona I was presenting to him, that I presented to everyone, was a woman desperately looking for a man to take charge of her sex life.

All my sexual fantasies were about a man, or occasionally a woman, seeing through my strong, businesslike façade and turning me into their sexually submissive slut. About their fucking my face, bending me over my desk and soaking my ass with their sperm or pussy juices, spreading my legs and fisting me, tying me up and having their way with me however they chose, even sharing me with their friends, without asking my permission to do any of that. I came so hard from such wicked fantasies, but then I always felt excessive guilt once I'd come and then calmed down.

I was a woman.

I was a feminist.

I was a role model to thousands of less successful women.

Yet the next time I was horny and using one of my vibrators... or my favourite way to come, with my particularly intense shower head (I'd had a shower installed in my newest house with shower streams at the exact height of my pussy and ass, although no one, not even my husband, knew why). So then I began imagining someone learning my secret and blackmailing me into being their slut, and typically it was someone in a position with very little other power: such as a janitor, a bellhop at a hotel, the food girl... fuck, what was her name again? Helena? No, Helen. That's right, Helen. And she was called a caterer. One name learned, and who knew how many to go.

Now I already knew tonight I'd be jilling off while imagining Mr. Stevenson, Paul, perhaps even Master Paul, doing unthinkably kinky shit to me. And those eyes, fuck, those penetrating eyes. Was it possible he could actually see what I was feeling? God, would that be bad.

"I'm not much of a follower," I said, not allowing him to see past my exterior.

He chuckled deeply, leaning even further forward, "Cecelia, what I need from you is to understand that being a CEO is about so much more than just performing analyses and making policy decisions. It's about team building, it's about mothering or fathering your corporation's community, it's about ferreting out and utilising the strengths in every employee, and discovering what kind of leader you need to be so you can effectively lead them. Only by having everyone pulling together as a team can you make your vision a reality."

"I have managers for doing that," I rebutted.

He sighed. Then after a pause, he asked bluntly, "May I be honest?"

"Please do," I said, expecting the worst.

"The board recommended a complete housecleaning."

"Of course they did," I said tersely, already imagining galloping into their next meeting with my guns blazing.

"I don't agree with them," he said.

"You don't?"

"No I don't," he repeated. "But..."

"Yes, there's always a but," I said, wondering what the message was this time behind that simple, yet loaded, three-letter-word.

He chuckled, "I may have worded that poorly, but I'm sorry, apparently I can't avoid it, I need to help you to undergo a leadership makeover."

"A leadership makeover?" I asked sourly; unable to hide my disdain.

"I know it sounds horrendous," he said, "but if we work together, I think we can make it happen."

"How?" I asked, annoyed as fuck, but realizing I likely had no choice in the matter.

"I'll deal with the details," he said, glancing at his watch. "But now I need to get going; I'm late for a meeting with Mr. Black."

"Oh," I said, Mr. Black being the chairman of the board, and thus the ongoing biggest and nastiest thorn in my side.

"Don't worry," he said, standing up and suddenly looming over me. "He won't make any decisions that I don't recommend."

"Are you certain about that?" I asked, Mr. Black not one to take orders.

"Yes, it's in my contract," he explained. "I have very clear guidelines and expectations that he's not allowed to mess with."

Again, although he was talking business, my twisted mind couldn't help but hear those words in a very different light. There was something about him, something about his demeanor, his looks, his voice, and especially his eyes, that consistently robbed me of my focus. I wasn't even sure what to say at this point, finding myself speechless, not something I was known for.

He handed me his card. "Let's meet at 6 o'clock at the Ritz to talk some more."

"I'm not sure I'll be available then," I said, not accustomed to being dictated to, although secretly my pussy was undeniably and frustratingly wet.

"Then make yourself available," he said, "I've invited you to call me Paul, and you certainly may, Cecelia, but while I'm here, as far as you're concerned, I should always be your top priority," before he turned and walked away. I let out a little gasp at his smug assumption of command, but found myself otherwise silent.

Once he was gone, I immediately called in my 'secretary with benefits' and ordered, "Get under my desk right away."

"Yes, ma'am," she nodded, closing my door, walking up to me, waiting for me to roll my chair back, and crawling under my desk. I pulled my pantyhose and panties down to my ankles and rolled my chair back into place just seconds before Paul walked back in... without knocking. Talk about completing sensitive activities in the nick of time!

He walked over to the chair he'd been sitting in, just a foot and a half away from the secretary between my legs, and snagged his empty teacup. "Sorry, I hate leaving clutter around for others to deal with."

"So do I," I lied, as I controlled a moan from my pussy being licked.

"You okay?" he asked.

"I'm fine," I said, as I pushed her head away momentarily.

"See you at six then," he said, turning to walk back out.

"Agreed," I agreed.

He stopped at the door and said, his stern voice back, so different from his concern over the teacup just seconds earlier, "And don't be late."